


The Fox and the Strawman

by Sintero



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Masquerade, Peter sucks at going undercover, Ravager job, Ronan plays along, Subterfuge, That's about the long and short of it, Wall Sex, Yondu yells a lot, and sex, then there's dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 04:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10528905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintero/pseuds/Sintero
Summary: At the behest of Yondu, Peter attempts to go undercover and infiltrate a diplomatic masquerade in pursuit of a prize far greater than any the Ravagers have stolen before.He quickly comes to find that subterfuge is not his forte.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bluethenstaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluethenstaub/gifts).



> This is a gift for the Staraccusermas Secret Santa exchange on Tumblr. @Scorpling requested: "Ronan and Peter meet at some kind of masquerade."

**_Ichthios Prime_ **

A garish blast of color assails Peter as he weaves his way through the press of bodies and leans over the edge of the mezzanine to observe the milling crowd below. The cool glass in his hand doubles nicely as a poultice to ease his sweating palms. He exhales until his lungs ache with it and allows the tension in his shoulders to be pulled down by his heavy brocade coat.

“Damn you, Yondu,” he mutters beneath his breath as trepidation continues to roil in his gut. It was a mistake for him to agree to this. If the past hour is anything to go by, subversive infiltration simply isn’t his forte. It’s anxious, tiring work pretending to be someone he’s not, much less a species he’s not.

Swallowing against the sudden tightness in his throat, Peter flicks the feathers of his masquerade mask out of his face and leans his weight into the balustrade until it digs uncomfortably into his hips.

The pain is grounding.

He continues to watch as, one by one, Ichthian dignitaries are ushered down a flight of steps to introduce themselves in a ritualistic descent from the mezzanine to the opulent ballroom below. There’s obviously a deep symbolism inherent in the act, but any deeper meaning was conspicuously omitted from Yondu’s instruction in the matter.

He taps his prosthetic claw tips against the banister and resigns himself to awaiting his own inevitable _Descent_.

Not for the first time this evening, he wonders if the ominously named ceremony is also a foreshadowing of the state of his reputation after having been dragged into this farce.  

 

**_Elector: 72 hours prior to mission_ **

Peter paces restlessly up and down the only clear pathway cut out amidst the clutter of the Captain’s quarters. A sundry of miscellaneous ship parts snag at his boots with each passing. It’s moments like these that make him rethink his life choices.

“So, let me get this straight. You’ve been trying for over fifty cycles to steal some priceless, _heavily guarded_ heirloom thingy from the most backwater planet in the sector,” Peter begins, voice positively dripping with disdain, “and you want me and Kraglin to play dress-up and just prance in there like it ain’t nothin’?”

“Well, I’ll be damned, you ain’t as dumb as you look!” Yondu’s cheeks crinkle from the force of his affected smile, his bemusement echoed in the deeply entrenched laugh lines about his eyes.

“I find that hard to believe,” Peter retorts as he glares down at the costume that he had initially refused to wear. Not surprisingly, his appreciation for the aesthetic grew exponentially at the same moment that his Captain had casually pursed his lips and whistled a jaunty tune.

“I mean, really, whoever made this must have been colorblind. Or maybe just flat out blind,” he observes, running his hands over the textured brocade and wincing at the dizzying array of puce, golden rod, and olive green thread, inlaid with ruby red accents. It’s only saving grace is that it has a handsome cut that emphasizes his physique. He fills the garish thing out quite nicely.

“It’s funny you say that. Ichthi are about as blind as Kraglin’s dates after a bottle o’ Farkan rum. They’ve got these…” Yondu wiggles his fingers in front of his own face and pulls an odd grimace. “…vestigial eyes. Creepiest things I ever seen.”

Peter stops in front of the splotchy full length mirror and rests a hand on his jutted hip, the very picture of petulance. He appraises his get-up critically, from the gaudy coat, to the convincingly realistic prosthetic claws, and up to the elegant masquerade mask that hides where his ‘vestigial eyes’ should be. “Okay. So, I guess this covers the Ikypoo whatevers. But didn’t you say there would be Kree there too?”

Yondu scoffs loudly and waves off his concerns. “Eh, nothin’ to worry about. You’ll probably get paired up with some knock-kneed paper pusher or somethin’. The Ichthi like to give everyone a tag along in the name of interstellar relations.” The disparagement dripping from his tone leaves little confusion as to what he thinks of the practice. “Just play nice and brush the jackass off as soon as you get the chance.”

Turning to glance at himself in profile, Peter nods his head in approval at how much the coat emphasizes his bottom. His face screws up in perplexion once Yondu’s words finally sink in.

“But aren’t the Kree, at least, going to see that I’m not some grayed-out Freddy Krueger reject?”

Yondu merely rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I have no clue what nonsense you’re spoutin’ off about, son, but Kree can’t see colors. All they’ll see is some purdy bit of tail prancing about and doin’ what all the other Ichthi are doin’.”

“So Kree have dog-eyes, huh?” Peter ponders aloud as he studies the pattern of his coat once more.

“The hell is a dog?” Yondu holds up a hand to cut Peter off as he excitedly turns to explain. “You know what, I don’t care. Now hush up and let’s go over the plan again.”

 

**_Ichthios Prime_ **

Kree dignitaries stand out as dark points amidst the splashes of colorful Ichthi.

Each guest’s outfit boasts a unique touch of tailoring that is seemingly architectural in nature. Cloth gathers and flows in a series of delicate spires and facades, each angle revealing a new detail or tantalizing hint of blue and pink skin. Despite his trepidation, Peter finds himself caught up in the splendor of it all.

A delicate hand slips into the crook of his elbow, the subtle pressure of which makes him jolt.

“Fateful Rys to you, handsome stranger. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” a petite Ichthi proclaims as she sidles up close. Her gray, sightless eyes shine out from a wildly flamboyant masquerade mask. Its tails are so intricately woven throughout her close-cropped hair that it’s difficult to distinguish between what is fabric and what is skin.

“Well, fateful Rys to you as well, gorgeous. But, I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise before the _Descent_ ,” Peter responds with a disarming smile. His reward is a light and airy laugh that leaves him instantly besotted.

“Of course. You are quite correct, young man.”

Elegant sweeps of chiffon encase the woman in a diaphanous, multi-layered tunic wherein each shift of her weight sets off a tumbling cascade that exposes glimpses of the lithe body beneath. He tries to swallow past the sudden tightness in his throat as his eyes slip down to covetously map the curvature of her décolletage when it appears.

“One must always observe an appropriate level of decorum at events such as these,” she continues casually. Though, her polite smile is proof enough that, traditionally blind though the Ichthi may be, he’s been caught red-handed.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean any offence,” Peter stutters in an attempt to smooth over his social gaffe. But, the crumbling remnants of his suave, confident façade sets off another round of tinkling laughter. The woman pats his arm in reassurance.

“Oh come, now. It’s good to see a young man so appreciative of the charms of an antique such as myself!”

“This vision of loveliness? An antique? I don’t believe that for a second,” Peter rallies admirably, affecting a wide-eyed look of disbelief beneath his mask.

From below, the chiming music that heralds another imminent introduction begins to weave its way up the grand staircase.

“Come now, charmer, it’s your turn to take the descent,” his companion pronounces in her gentle way. “I believe you’ll find that I’ve arranged for a companion of both exceptional standing and interest for you this evening. As Mother to this event, I take pride in these things.” It’s only when she slips her hand from his elbow to the small of his back and guides him softly to the stair edge that Peter realizes whom he’s been so brazenly flirting with.

His stomach plummets as the Venerable Mother, the matriarch of all of Ichthios, inclines her head and waves him on.

**_Elector: 48 hours prior to mission_ **

A meaty smack resounds throughout Yondu’s quarters, immediately chased by Kraglin’s wheezing laughter.

“You got somewhere else to be, son? Now, don’t be afraid to speak up if your Captain is _inconveniencin’_ you,” Yondu states with affected concern, drawing out the word and somehow managing to turn it into something dangerous.

“What? No,” Peter snaps, happy to note that there’s only a slight whine in his voice when he does so.

The Ravager Captain eyes him side-long with an inscrutable expression and scratches absently at the blue stubble on his chin. “Then I suggest you rub what’s left of them Terran brain cells together and listen up,” he hollers. The sudden rise in volume makes Peter flinch.

“Well, maybe if you’d stop smacking me I’d have more!” he mutters in his defense.

His back-talk is rewarded with another solid slap that rocks his head and puts a splash of color on his already tender cheek.

“This ain’t a game, Quill! I ain’t got all damn cycle for you to run your mouth. I got a billion units ridin’ on you actin’ like you got enough sense not to screw this up. Now, do it again and make me damn well believe it this time,” Yondu hisses, spewing flecks of spittle.

Peter merely rolls his eyes and rubs his stinging cheek. Somehow, he miraculously manages to wrestle down the string of petulant retorts that are his go-to defense in situations like these.

“Fine,” he says instead, dragging out the word as he ascends the stairs next to Yondu’s personal viewport for what feels like the fiftieth time in the past hour. Backlit by the flickering glow of a nearby star, he turns and promptly descends the handful of steps once more. This time, his steps are slow and controlled in a way that feels entirely unnatural. But, as he alternately points his toes and sweeps his heels along in a vaguely dance-like procession, Yondu’s furrowed brow softens and his pinched lips slowly ease into a crooked grin. Reluctant approval radiates from him in a way that Peter likes to imagine is fondly paternal.

“Fateful Rys, honored elders. My name is Commissioner Star Lord, hailing from the Qualzi Protectorate,” he announces in a smooth, confident tenor. He proceeds to reenact the formal speech in its entirety, just as he’s been practicing for the better part of a solar day.  

“You know, Cap’n, we might just pull this one off,” Kraglin admits during Peter’s recitation, voice pitched low enough to hover intimately between them.

Yondu’s only response is a slow, wicked grin.

Once Peter completes his _Descent_ , Yondu clears his throat and studies him with narrowed eyes, arms akimbo. “Alright, boy, now what do you got to say to that dusty old biddy when she pairs you up with yer Kree bootlicker?”

“Give me the hottest one you’ve got,” Peter drawls with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. However, his hands quickly rise in a gesture of placation before Yondu can make good on the threat inherent in his raised palm.

“It was just a joke, man!” Yondu’s hand continues to hover, not mollified so easily.

Peter sighs explosively. “In honor of the spirit of cooperation and binding, I do so welcome you, companion, to the house of the Venerable Mother. Partake of our bounty so that together we might forge the star path to the benevolent gods.”

He rolls his eyes and sends up a silent prayer that the Ichthi aren’t quite so pompous and loquacious as their rituals would suggest.

 

**_Ichthios Prime_ **

“Well met, Commissioner Star-Lord. Your companion for the evening will be Ro-Nan, Legislative Adjunct to the House of…Pa-Aes.” The Venerable Mother’s hesitation is subtle and slips by unremarked. She glides effortlessly forward and closes the space between them, coaxing an errant feather back into submission on Peter’s mask. Blank, gray eyes twinkle up at him, ancient and inscrutable.

“He is a man of few words, though I trust that you will find each other’s company most invigorating. After all, there is often a far greater truth to be discovered in the masks we wear than the words we weave.”

It’s only when she looks away and severs the connection between them that Peter lets out the breath he had subconsciously been holding. The pounding of his heart deafens him to the heavy footfalls approaching swiftly from behind, each heel strike ringing out like a carillon on a crisp morning.

“Have a pleasant evening, Star-Lord.” The Venerable Mother inclines her head and steps back without further comment, tracing the hem of Peter’s sleeve with her claw tips as she turns to go.

“Thanks. You too,” he offers in return.

She graces him with one last enigmatic smile, then quickly takes her leave in favor of receiving the next dignitaries.

For a long moment, Peter watches her mount the stairs to the mezzanine and disappear into the crowd of half-hidden faces.

Infatuated as he is, he fails to notice how swiftly Ronan closes the space between them. It’s only when the heat of his body thickens the air that Peter finally turns to be confronted with a broad chest, resplendent in stylized armor of a black so profoundly deep that it devours the light. Panning up reveals a strong, blue jawline framed by a simple mask that drapes across his eyes and falls over his cheekbones in a simulacrum of teardrops. The man is tall and well formed, his armor specifically designed to emphasize the curvaceous muscle beneath. Nervous sweat begins to bead across Peter’s forehead and glues the fabric of his shirt to his skin.

“It is an honor to meet you Commissioner Star-Lord. I’ve been informed that you manage an exemplary protectorate. Shall we step aside and discuss its substantial merits?”

The Kree’s voice rolls over him, a luxurious caress that belies the commanding power beneath, and Peter is lost.

 

“Oh, yeah, um…that would be awesome,” he answers eloquently. “It’s Ro-Nan, right?”

Canting his head in acknowledgment, Ronan proffers his arm.

Though Yondu had drilled Peter on Ichthian etiquette until his eyes crossed, there was no elucidating lesson as to how to approach formal Kree protocol. Following a moment of indecision, he finally steps forward and settles his hand in the crook of the Kree’s elbow just as the Venerable Mother had on the mezzanine. The slight nod that he receives in turn has him breathing a silent prayer of relief.  

He follows closely as Ronan leads them across the bustling ballroom and takes the opportunity to fondle the Kree’s bicep under the guise of readjusting his grip.

“So, you’re a legislative adjunct, eh?” Peter asks, more to break the ice than out of any true interest.

Ronan glances down at him speculatively. “Indeed.”

“Sounds pretty important.” Peter leaves an opening for his companion to pick up the breadcrumb trail of conversation, to no avail. Ronan responds with a noncommittal grunt.

Eye-candy though he may be, talking to the man is like pulling teeth. Peter fights the urge to roll his eyes and bumps him slightly with his shoulder instead. “And what exactly do you do? Professional paper pushing? Executive retrieving of files from the top shelves?” he wheedles, hoping to at least get a rise out of the mountainous Kree. His efforts are met with continued silence. Peter pulls a comically exaggerated grimace and thinks to himself that this is going to be the longest night of his life.

Ronan continues to navigate them around groups of gaily chattering dignitaries and motions for Peter to sit on a lovely, blue couch that appears to be the lovechild of a too-small chaise lounge and an Escher painting. Peter surreptitiously takes note of the way other members of the delegation are seated on their respective lounges and follows suit. The act of situating himself on the uneven waves of upholstery is managed with some success, but little grace. Ronan waits patiently, then insinuates himself into the space immediately adjacent, hips nearly brushing.

Partially cut off from the busy ballroom, their intimate nook makes Peter squirm, vaguely discomfited. He looks around at the smattering of other pairings and can’t suppress the thought that this feels like the most awkward singles retreat he’s ever been to. Ronan’s rich voice jolts him from his thoughts.

“Ah, this is much more conducive to conversation,” he pronounces. He broadly gestures to the surrounding alcove and uses the motion to settle his arm on the backrest behind Peter’s shoulders.

“So you _can_ talk!” Peter blurts out impulsively, grinning wryly and slapping one palm to his chest. He forgets to account for the length of his prosthetic claws and winds up jabbing himself in the throat none too gently.

Ronan merely raises a brow above the brim of his mask and crosses an ankle over to rest atop his opposite knee, the very picture of easy confidence.

“Of course. I simply find battling the discord of other voices to be tiresome. And, to answer your prior question, Star-Lord, my position entails menial office duties, the likes of which a Protectorate Commissioner such as yourself would find rather dull. Perhaps, instead of regaling you with tales of tedium, you would prefer to share the minutiae of your own fascinatingly provincial life?”

The smooth timbre of his voice is intoxicating and Peter completely fails to recognize the jibe for what it is at first. The words sink in a couple of seconds later and surprise a sharp bark of laughter from him.

“Wow. You’re kind of a dick,” he concludes, smiling hugely and turning the whole of his attention to his companion.

Fire dances in Ronan’s eyes at the promise of a challenge.

 

**_Elector: 44 hours prior to mission_ **

“Blah, blah, blah, I talk about how amazing I am and generally make an ass of myself, right?” Peter drawls, rolling his wrist and watching as his ungainly claws flop to and fro.

Yondu sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off the encroaching headache. A glow flickers around his fin, then fades. “You know what, sure. Wax poetic about anything and everything you think makes you a special galaxy-damned snowflake. But, boy, whatever you do, just don’t be yourself.”

Kraglin’s snigger can be heard from across the Captains Quarters. Half buried in a chest of drawers, he misses the middle finger that Peter reflexively shoots his way.

“Real funny,” he pouts. “Okay, so I charm the pants off of Rhapsody in Blue, maybe make a trade agreement or two if you know what I mean…”

Yondu interrupts him with a growl that steadily works its way up to a gruff shout. “Now, I’m gonna say this real slow so that maybe it’ll seep into that hard Terran head of yours. You’re goin’ there to do a job; it ain’t no pleasure trip. No smart-ass jokes, no stupid smiles, and no, absolutely NO nookie nookie.”

“Oh, sure, take the fun out of it why don’t ya,” Peter mutters beneath his breath.

The grate flooring clangs alarmingly as Yondu closes the distance between them and manages to project the impression of looming despite being half a handspan shorter. He jabs Peter in the chest and snarls. “You’re there for one reason and one reason only, Quill, to make me filthy rich. You make nice with your Kree, don’t piss them off, then get rid of them and get the goods. This really isn’t that hard is it?” The last question he directs towards his first mate.

“Nossir,” Kraglin chimes in, holding up a silk shirt the color of fresh cream and appraising the deep V-front critically.

 

**_Ichthios Prime_ **

“You can’t seriously expect me to believe that you were able to outmaneuver the Nova Corps!” Exasperated, Peter gesticulates grandly, causing his shirt to billow and reveal a long stretch of bare skin. Ronan’s fleeting glance goes undetected.

“The state of your belief is inconsequential. The tale is entirely factual, I assure you,” he retorts with nothing but smooth dignity.

A flurry of feathers obscures Peter vision from the force with which he shakes his head. He flicks them back into place, eyes never leaving the insufferably smug uptick of Ronan’s lips.

“So, you’re telling me that you were able to browbeat Nova Prime into giving up prime trade routes like that? I don’t care how amazing you are at spewing legal jargon, I call bullshit.”

“Prime? Certainly not. I merely convinced her undersecretary that signing the Interplanetary Commerce Act was in his better interest. The poor man was positively quaking by my third recitation of Kree trade law statutes four-hundred and fifty point nil through one-thousand, three-hundred and two point five, subsection C. The Kree Empire has been enjoying the fruits of my, admittedly skilled, tongue ever since.” The statement is innocent enough to be accidental, but the way his tongue slides out to moisten his lips is questionable. Peter’s rejoinder falls flat before it begins.

“I think I see how he could have been persuaded,” he admits instead. His reward is a surprisingly rich bout of laughter. It only lasts a couple of seconds, but Peter is captivated. He risks scooting close enough that the blunt edges of Ronan’s armor press against his hip and shoulder.

“Do you have any more stories from your amazing adventures in office work?” Peter asks with faux interest. The texture of Ronan’s leather-clad thigh is far more worthy of his notice.

However, before he finds out where the loaded repartee between them is going to lead, approaching footfalls catch his attention. He quickly eases himself back to a more professional distance, cheeks burning as if caught doing something untoward. Ronan reluctantly sits upright as well, eyes still laser focused on Peter’s retreating hand. It’s only when Peter pointedly clears his throat that Ronan turns his attention towards a tall Kree and her solidly built Ichthi companion as they advance towards them.

The Kree woman seems to pale beneath her austere half-mask as she comes to a standstill at a respectful distance. Her companion cocks his head quizzically and makes vague gestures at Peter, but stays otherwise silent. His claw tips quit tracing out sigils in the air and settle at his sides when he receives no response.

“Ronan,” the captivating Kree woman blurts out, snapping her fist to her chest sharply in salute. Unlike Ronan, her armor is surprisingly minimalistic and lies in an artful drape about her shoulders and neck. “I was not aware that you were to be in attendance tonight,” she explains, though her strong voice quickly dwindles under Ronan’s intense scrutiny.

“Perhaps you had no need to know of my whereabouts, Accuser Tar-Ath,” he answers flatly, all teasing lilt gone.

“No disrespect was intended, Supr…”

Ronan cuts her off with a raised palm and an aggressive tilt of his head. “Regardless of your intent, you are currently disrespecting the protocol of our respected hosts and allies by broaching the sanctity of my trade negotiations with Commissioner Star-Lord. If you have documents to file or discuss, I will gladly assist you at a more appropriate time.”

Tar-ath’s brow furrows and her notice finally lands on Peter. After a brief moment of shock, then indecision, the woman dips her chin and wisely guides her companion away without another word. Peter glances first at Ronan as he eases back into a casual recline, then at the couple’s retreating backs.

“Why is there an Accuser at the masquerade ball? And I thought your name was Ro-Nan? Is something going on here?” he squeaks, releasing his white-knuckled grasp of the lounge upholstery through sheer force of will. The heat of Ronan’s palm on his lower back does little to ease the sudden tension in his shoulders

“It is merely an inconsistency between dialects. And an Accuser’s presence is a formality at all such diplomatic events involving the Kree; there is no need for concern,” he rumbles, once again leaning in close enough for Peter to feel the warmth of his breath. Even the increasingly intimate proximity is not enough to stop Peter from balking.

“We’re not under attack or anything, are we?”

“As I mentioned, the Accuser’s presence is purely a formality. Now, I find myself eager to return to our prior conversation.” Ronan reaches up and brushes aside an errant feather on Peter’s mask, using the opportunity to trace the edge of his mask and run his fingertips along Peter’s jaw. The scintillating touch is as electric as it is unexpected.

“Oh,” Peter whispers, surprised at Ronan’s suddenly more amorous interest. This close, the heat and musk that rolls off of the man is a potent cocktail, thick with masculinity and power of a sort that goes straight to Peter’s groin. Too, the hand that settles heavily on his thigh dispels Peter’s mounting trepidation concerning the Accuser rather efficiently.

 

 

Just as he thinks that he may be well on his way to breaking another of Yondu’s rules, a crisp chime rings throughout the facility. The timing can’t be any more fortuitous.

“Oh, good. I’m starving!” Peter exclaims, perhaps a bit too emphatically, to mask his relief at having an excuse to move away before his pants tent too noticeably. The rasp of Ronan’s armor makes him flinch as the Kree reclaims his arm from where it had come to rest around the small of his back. Retreating fingers linger on his hip.

“Yes, auspicious timing, indeed,” the Kree grunts. He unfolds from the awkward furniture with a grace that Peter doesn’t expect for a man his size. Bowing slightly at the waist, he extends a hand to help Peter up. They navigate the ballroom and take their seats at the formal dining area, Ronan with controlled, but ill-concealed power and Peter with a flourish.

Once seated, Ronan’s eyes narrow as he surveys the procession and sweeps the room, but the expression passes just as quickly as it comes.

“Wow,” Peter murmurs at the spread before them.

Platters laden with an odd collection of richly colored sauces float about the perimeter of the sprawling banquet tables in an intricately choreographed burst of pageantry. Peter notes that his companion is the first among the guests to be served and briefly wonders why a legislative adjunct would be so honored. But then he realizes that those are Kraglin’s knobby knees poking out from beneath the serving tray, kneeling in supplication as he is, and all considerations of intrigue flee from his mind. Vindictive and petty, he revels in Kraglin’s forced servitude.

“Now, Commissioner, as a connoisseur of all things toothsome, which variety of preparation would you prefer?” Ronan asks as he scans the artful arrangement of delicacies innocently enough. A dozen tawdry retorts hover on the tip of Peter’s tongue, but he is saved from responding by his erstwhile crewmate.

“The gray stuff’s real good, uh, sirs. Real _subtle_ ,” Kraglin offers in an affected simper. The atrocious accent makes Peter cringe imperceptibly, as does the blatant rebuke for his behavior, but it dispels the rising sexual tension rather nicely. Regardless, he stealthily stomps on Kraglin’s leg out of spite.

Ronan’s brow lowers and the small grin falls from his lips. He ignores Kraglin’s lackluster etiquette in favor of perusing the selection and proceeding to serve them both a sampling from each bowl.

As he does so, Peter and Kraglin’s eyes meet, both simultaneously realizing that, to the Kree, everything is gray and Ichthi differentiate by texture.

The tray wobbles precariously.

“Huh, I think your translator needs a tuning. You should go get that taken care of,” Peter observes, tone mild despite his racing heart.

The relief is evident in Kraglin’s voice. “Yes. Yes, sir. I think yer right.”

“That will be all,” Ronan states with dangerous finality once he is satisfied. Kraglin beats a hasty retreat, but not before rallying himself together sufficiently to shoot a sidelong glare at Peter. It takes a long moment for Ronan’s obvious displeasure to abate. The impulsive slide of Peter’s boot up his armored calf certainly helps matters along.

Without further incident, clinking dishware heralds the beginning of the meal and they tuck in.

 

**_Elector: 40 hours prior to mission_ **

“I have to eat with seashells?” Peter asks in abject confusion as he eyes the formal dining utensils. The translucent slips of mother of pearl stand out like a sore thumb on Yondu’s filthy work desk.

“The hell are seashells?” Yondu shoots back, shifting to more comfortably perch one hip on the glass top of his desk. He continues without waiting for an answer. “These here are what you use when you ain’t got proper fingers to eat with.”

Peter eyes his prosthetic claws with a mixture of frustration and petulance. “Can’t I just drink from the bowl? It’s not like I’m trying to make a good impression.”

“Well you sure as hell ain’t tryin’ to make a bad one neither, son,” Yondu retorts. The put upon sigh that follows is well practiced and flawlessly executed for maximum effect.

Despite his sour disposition, Peter gamely attempts to pick up the largest of the nautilus-like shells with his fake claws. Before he can even fit it fully into his palm, the Captain smacks it out of his hands.

“Nope.”

Scowling, Peter picks up the next size down and receives the same treatment.

“Wrong.” The puckish grin that Yondu shoots him makes his toes curl in his boots for lack of the ability to make fists. Miraculously he manages to curtail the rising frustration that threatens to make his head explode and stains his cheeks a brilliant pink.

“Well, maybe if someone would just _tell_ me how instead of being the world’s biggest jackass,” Peter begins with considerable heat, but is skillfully cut off.

“You gotta start with the little one, one swallow. Then the next one, two. And the big one, three, then that’s it, dinner’s done.”

He frowns, his eyelids twitching as he realizes that this mission just keeps getting better and better. “So you’re sayin’ that dinner is nothing but six bites of ugly soup,” he seeks to confirm, vaguely horrified.

“Fancy, ain’t it?” Yondu simpers, batting his lashes.

Doubtless, this is karmic retribution for all of the nonsense that Peter put the Ravagers through when he was growing up. When he reaches for the smallest nautilus it gets stuck in a smear of unknown origin and brings a star chart along with it. Yondu yanks it off as if his non-existent organizational system has just suffered a cataclysmic event.

“Now dip it and spin. The other way,” he huffs.

Peter does as bid and scoops out a small portion into the wide flange, only fumbling once with his strange fingertips. Spinning the nautilus draws the portion through and loads it into a straw-like protuberance.

“Well, here goes.”

 

**_Ichthios Prime_ **

The first taste is opulence itself. A sumptuous explosion of tart sweetness bursts across his tongue so unexpectedly that he fails to stifle a decidedly sensual moan. Ronan observes him sidelong and begins his meal with significantly more subdued relish. However, the amusement that has been omnipresent throughout the evening twinkles in his eyes with renewed intensity.

“Strange. I had presumed that _RthAn_ was commonplace in even so intimate of a protectorate as your own. Am I mistaken in my assumption, Commissioner?”

Peter glances over, wide-eyed and slowly draws the eating protuberance from his mouth. His tongue darts across his lips to savor the lingering remnants, oily and slick. “No, no. We have it all the time! It’s just…not usually this good.” he explains, cheeks tingling from both sudden panic and the quite sour aftertaste. He shifts in his chair and unclasps the elegant broach on his waist so that his coat flares open in a desperate bid to stave off the nervous sweat.

“Ah, of course. I understand.” Ronan hums thoughtfully and scoops up a generous portion of what looks like gray sorbet. Deft fingers manipulate the nautilus through its curvilinear process. Once the preparation is complete, he offers it, aperture first, to Peter.

“If you enjoyed the _RthAn_ so, perhaps the _KothA_ will satisfy your palate as well,” he states with a casual aloofness that does nothing to mask the way he leans close, expectant.

“Oh, um. Sure,” Peter stammers. He reaches out to retrieve the utensil only to have it swept just outside of his range.

“No, Star-Lord,” the Kree tuts, then offers the dish once more. The knot of tension that holds Peter’s stomach in a stranglehold loosens slightly at the rush of heat to his cheeks.

He sidles close enough to feel Ronan’s solid thigh against his knee and leans down to seal his lips around the aperture. The motion is slow and purposefully sensual. Ronan’s breath hitches audibly as Peter works his tongue and applies suction to the device with an entirely unnecessary thoroughness. When a jarring slurp signals the end of the portion, he sweeps the circumference of it with his tongue and resumes his seat.

The flavor is nutty and bitter in a way that perfectly complements the prior tang.

“You were right, the _KothA_ is really good. You should try it for yourself,” he comments as he dabs at the corners of his mouth unnecessarily. His lascivious display is met with a pregnant pause.

Thankfully, Kraglin chooses that moment to return before Ronan’s intense focus can become any more predacious than it already is. This time his tray is loaded with two fluted glasses and a delicate decanter filled with a light purple beverage that matches the color of Ronan’s eyes.

Peter mentally kicks himself for the blatant romanticism of the thought.

 

**_Elector: 39 hours prior to mission_ **

“So there’ll be alcohol?” Peter inquires with a cheeriness that doesn’t have to be faked.

Yondu rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest firmly enough to make the seams of his jacket groan. “Yeah, there’s gonna be alcohol.”

 

**_Ichthios Prime_ **

And what an alcohol it is.

The crisp spring wine caresses his throat all the way down like a lover and leaves behind a potent afterglow. Two sips are enough for Peter to have to set the flute down and consider moderation.

Luckily, Ronan is pulled into conversation by an Ichthi diplomat directly adjacent to them who seems overly concerned with which forms to file for an agricultural tithe exemption. It gives Peter time to reorient after the potent drink and the opportunity to allow himself an unobserved moment of sheer aesthetic appreciation.

The lines of Ronan’s crisp formalwear pull taunt against his thighs, offering a small taste of the rippling body beneath. His broad shoulders dip and flex with each gesticulation, drawing attention to the strong lines of his neck. Just as Ronan completes his discussion and turns back, Peter quickly buries his attention into his neglected flute in the hopes that it will hide his steadily rising blush.

Back on the Elector, Yondu’s sage advice on the subject of Kree colorblindness had been that Peter could shit rainbows and his companion wouldn’t be able to find the pot of gold at the end. But, as Ronan’s predacious gaze returns to settle on the profile of his masked face, where the bottom half of his cheeks burn brightly, Peter very much doubts that things are quite so simple. Too, he sincerely regrets having told Yondu about leprechauns.

Ronan takes a sip from his flute and rolls the flavor on his tongue.

“ _JeKalt_ cycle four-thousand and fifty-two,” he comments with a note of approval. The fond uptick of his lips makes something in Peter’s gut clench just as the warmth of the spring wine blooms in his stomach.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks after taking another, heartier, swallow. His blush only deepens further when Ronan catches a stray drop of wine from the rim of Peter’s glass and brings it to his own lips.

“The vintage,” he explains, “is quite fine.” Peter’s eyes linger on the way his finger disappears between his lips and reemerges with a wet smack. Even the light, spicy wine that the Ichthi so favor can’t distract from the sudden rush of arousal that strikes like a fist, devastating and electric.

“Yeah. It’s alright.” Clearing his throat, Peter sets the flute down.

“Your protectorate is the appellation of origin for this particular lot, is it not? One should have a bit more pride in their most touted exports,” Ronan chides, voice thick with sly humor. “I myself have found them to be most palatable.”

“Thanks. I like your over-bearing justice system.” While their conversations had been characterized by a volley of thinly veiled insults and flirtations throughout the evening, he realizes that he may have gone too far this time and ducks his head at the gaffe.

The axe falls, not as a heavy hand on the nape of his neck, but in the form of a rich bout of laughter.

“I must admit, you are the first Ichthi to voice your appreciation of the Kree Empire so brazenly,” Ronan responds with a teasing glint in his eye. Peter peeks up through the fringe of his hair, brows raised and lips parted at his unexpected good fortune. As the Kree settles and buries his amusement into another pull of wine, Peter can’t help but watch the strong arch of his throat bob with each swallow. Whether by Kree torture tactics or blue balls, this dinner is going to be the death of him, he concludes.

Once Ronan drains the flute, he sets it down with care. “With such mutual appreciation, it would seem that opening a line of communication for trade negotiations would be a wise venture. I believe Hala would quickly appropriate a taste for your protectorate’s wine. Though, it appears that libations are not your province’s only palatable export,” he continues with a pointed glance at where Peter’s brocade coat flares open to reveal a tantalizing peek of the firm chest beneath.

Peter’s mouth goes dry and he sends a silent thanks to Kraglin for picking out the silken undershirt whose neckline plunges towards his navel.

“You’re right. I don’t mean to brag, but we have some pretty nice lands. They’re good for growing all kinds of things,” he retorts airily, tracing the neckline of his shirt and revealing more skin in the process.

Ronan’s lips twitch. “Perhaps I should come observe this fertile soil for myself if it grows such lush product,” he pronounces. Their eyes lock and Peter is lost.

“Yeah, you really should.”

This time, when Ronan’s hand finds the small of his back, the warm, gentle pressure is pleasant and welcome in a way that is entirely disarming.

“Would you honor me with a dance, Star-Lord?” And, oh, his moniker was _made_ to roll off of blue lips.

“For the sake of trade relations?” Peter asks with affected nonchalance.

“Exactly so.” Ronan smiles broadly enough to reveal a long row of obsidian teeth, and Peter finds himself enamored all over again. He could certainly stand to wake up to that puckish grin, legs intertwined, and a pleasant ache in his ass.

Ronan rises and offers his hand in invitation. “Come.”

 

**_Elector: 20 hours prior to mission_ **

“Damnit, Quill! I swear you got two left feet,” Kraglin complains as he nurses yet another abused toe.

Even knowing that he is going to catch seven shades of hell when Yondu gets back, Peter can’t find it in himself to care. The Ichthi dance like rabid Tasmanian devils and he has a spectacular tendency to trip himself with each ridiculous dip and turn.

“Well then maybe you should be the fancy diplomat and I’ll ladle the damn soup!” Tempers flare as they face off against each other.

“No can do. Capn’s orders. Yer just too darn pretty not to be the princess,” Kraglin drawls in a worryingly accurate imitation of Yondu.

Peter shudders. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Without further comment, they come together, posture stiff. Peter tries to put his hands anywhere but on Kraglin and winds up doing an admirable impersonation of a coat rack. With a look of disgust, Yondu’s first mate grabs Peter’s wrists and tries his damnedest to reel them in where they need to be. They don’t budge. Kraglin eyes Peter’s bulging deltoids as if they’ve committed a personal offense.

“Peter!” he chastises, slim shoulders beginning to rise up towards his ears in ire.

Staring at the ceiling in hopes that there will be a hull breach that swallows him whole, Peter exhales mightily and sets his claw tips on Kraglin’s skinny chest. “This is the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“You an’ me both,” Kraglin mutters, for once in complete agreement.

 

**_Ichthios Prime_ **

“Now, Kree though I may be, surely I am not fallacious in the understanding that you must place your hands on my chest to initiate the steps,” Ronan rumbles in a silky sweet baritone that resonates through Peter’s chest and leaves behind a satisfaction not unlike the taste of dark chocolate.

“Psh. Of course. I was just admiring the view first,” Peter retorts, rallying admirably.

Closing the scant centimeters of distance between them, he places his hands on Ronan’s chest exactly where Kraglin had demonstrated earlier in his own graceless way. There is no give to the solid flesh beneath his palms. The pectoral plates of Ronan’s militaristic ensemble would bow long before the muscle beneath and Peter is embarrassed to find that his cock twitches in interest.

Ronan raises a brow knowingly. “That’s better,” he purrs.

The hand on Peter’s lower back slips around to his side and dives beneath his coat. Ronan brushes the cresting swell of his buttocks and toys with the hem of his Mandolian silk shirt. Clever fingers slip in-between the folds and caress his bare skin with confidence. That single, relatively innocuous touch sends a shiver coursing up Peter’s spine. For once, he is thankful for the length and relative shapelessness of his garish coat.

“Wow, you have really big hands,” he admits unintentionally, ever the master of nuanced discourse.

“Indeed.” Ronan’s dry humor is a refreshing anchor amidst the tumultuous mine field of the evening’s subterfuge. As he is steadily urged to press flush against the unremitting block of muscle, Peter curiously studies the rough texture of Ronan’s ceremonial paint where it peeks out from beneath his mask. The overall effect is both alien and captivating.

But, he is given little time to appreciate the view.

The first clear notes of an Ichthian ballad ring clearly throughout the crowded hall. The texture of the music is surprisingly rich.

As one, the dignitaries fall into step.

Each of the Kree’s movements are timed impeccably to a silent metronome. It is simplicity itself for Peter to relax into his stalwart embrace and be lost in the flow of their synchronized movements. The rhythm is soothing in its predictability and wholly unlike what Kraglin had played on the _Elector_. Peter figures that his crewmate trained him wrong as a joke.

However, his less than gracious thoughts are interrupted when the hand that had been toying with his hemline stealthily slips down further and takes a firm hold of his ass. There’s no misconstruing the hungry, purple-eyed gaze that accompanies it.

“Umm, your hand is on my butt.”

Ronan hums thoughtfully. “So it is.”

“As long as we’re clear on that.”

“Quite clear, Commissioner,” he retorts, punctuating his words with a subtle growl. The suggestion of inherent danger caresses each syllable and Peter finds himself wondering once more why a legislative desk clerk has such well-defined pectorals.

He presses close enough to seal their bodies together and breathes in the metallic scent of the Kree’s skin.

“Mmm, so what’s Kree sentencing like for moral turpitude?”

“You ask a very dangerous question,” the Kree states in a tone completely devoid of the teasing lilt that has been ever-present throughout the night. He deigns to answer the question, but neither does he pull his hand away from where it gamely kneads Peter’s buttocks.

With a soft moan, Peter continues pressing the subject, having failed to grasp the subtle change in Ronan’s demeanor.

“A night in lock-up?”

Ronan’s eyes narrow further.

“ _Hard_ labor?” Peter ripostes, punctuating his words with a lascivious roll of his hips. Lust makes him reckless and the hitch in Ronan’s breath is well worth the faux pas.

“Moral turpitude is the most benign of your crimes this evening, Star-Lord; it is hardly worth noting. Now, prepare yourself,” Ronan growls. His words serve as both an immediate warning as well as a foreshadowing of things to come. Precipitously, the tempo of the music increases tenfold and Peter can’t help but laugh uproariously as he is swept along. Colorful masks and costumes flash past as they swirl and glide through an increasingly more intricate pattern of steps.

The feathers of his mask flit and sway in a dizzying array of red and purple until Ronan relinquishes his hold on Peter’s buttocks to remove the bothersome thing altogether and toss it into the whirling crowd. He takes a moment to study Peter’s face, gaze lingering on the smooth jawline and pink lips, soft and inviting.

“Ah, elucidation,” he pronounces cryptically before returning his focus to guiding them along with firm but gentle hands.

The next series of choreography takes them to the outskirts of the dance floor, where they duck and weave amongst the columned promenade. Suddenly, the music stops and hangs pendulously; the entire dance floor pauses. Gaily colored coattails swish and settle. By either luck or design, Ronan and Peter come to an abrupt standstill behind a convenient stairway balustrade.

Inevitably, Ronan takes the opportunity to close the distance between them in slow motion and press their lips together, hot enough to brand. Insofar as kisses go, it’s chaste, but agonizingly intense and over far too quickly. The Kree returns to his full height and samples the taste of Peter on his lips.

“A fine vintage indeed,” he proclaims. At his words, the music finally bursts beneath its own weight and crashes into a frighteningly frenzied pace that somehow manages to retain its elegance. It’s wholly alien and Peter finds himself lost in the maelstrom, grounded only by the solidity of Ronan’s arms around his waist.

If not for the Kree guiding his steps, Peter would surely succumb to his own two left feet. Instead, Ronan gathers him close and meets each ringing peel of his merriment with a fiery gaze and questing fingertips.

He knows that the gifting ceremony will be next, and with it his cue to flitch the treasure that looks oddly enough like a Faberge egg. But, for the time being, Peter’s focus is filled with the solid warmth beneath his hands and the static crackle of a lingering kiss.

 

**_Elector: 17 hours prior to mission_ **

“Then they’re gonna do they’re little holy procession nonsense.” Yondu’s demonstration of the teeter-totter steps makes Peter cough violently into his fist to hide his amusement. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes are a dead giveaway however.

“You know what, I guess you don’t need my expertise after all. You got this all figured out already, don’t ya?”

“Oh, no. Please, keep goin’. How did that go again? I’m gonna need a refresher.” Peter waves his hand for Yondu to continue and finally slumps over from the explosive force of his laughter.

Despite his aching belly, a sharp whistle makes him drop to his knees instinctively.

This time, it’s Yondu’s turn to laugh. When Peter realizes that he’s not staring cross-eyed at a quivering arrow tip, he eases himself back up off of the floor and ungraciously dusts himself off.

The Centaurian’s crest is still a flat, gun-metal gray and his yaka arrow continues to sit in its sheath, unmolested.

“As I was sayin’,” Yondu continues with all of the smug sanctimony that can fit into one crooked smile. “They’re gonna do their holy walk, then put the heirloom on some holy dais or another. That’s where you and Kraglin come in. While they’re prayin’ to the gods of gullibility, you can walk in as brazen as you like. They ain’t gonna hear a peep.”

“Sure, but what about my Kree arm candy?” Peter asks.

Before the question is completely out of his mouth, Yondu stalks across his quarters and squares his hips, glaring up at Peter with arms akimbo.

“What did I tell ya earlier, boy? You get rid of that asshole and you won’t have to worry about it.”

 

**_Ichthios Prime_ **

This isn’t his fault.

Recent memories of Yondu’s warning jockey for position in the forefront of Peter’s mind. But the firm grasp of blue, callused fingertips on the nape of his neck reduces those strong words to no more than empty whispers with a hint of halitosis.

And regardless, the Captain couldn’t have accounted for overly amorous legislative adjuncts with fascinating blue skin and a jawline for days.

Surely there is some leeway in the plan.

Thus, while the other dancers continue to whirl and dip, Peter finds himself being herded down a long hall. He ultimately winds up pressed against the cool, stone wall of a particularly opulent guest suite, drunk on more than just the potent mix of dancing and spring wine.

Ronan is on him, mouthing his neck and tugging his coat open like a man possessed.

He quickly shifts his attention to Peter’s jawline and plants a series of firm nips along the curve of it, soothing each jolt with a surprisingly gentle kiss. The juxtaposition of carefully administered pain and unexpected tenderness sets Peter’s skin alight.

“Ronan,” he groans as he tilts his head back to offer a broader expanse of throat. The invitation is swiftly taken and Ronan leans down further to nuzzle the taunt line of muscle. A purring hum takes root in his chest as he maps the exposed stretch of skin with obvious enjoyment. Each brush of his lips and tongue serves to stoke the embers of arousal in Peter’s belly until he’s panting with it.

“Come on, man, stop teasing,” he whines, only to balk when the pleased hum abruptly drops in register and turns into a rumble that resonates through them both. It doesn’t take long for an edge of danger to seep into Ronan’s gentle ministrations.

“You will be patient and take what is given to you,” the Kree growls without pausing once in his exploration.

In challenge, Peter elects to slide his knee between Ronan’s thighs where his cock hangs long and heavy beneath the utilitarian panels of armor. The invitation there is blunt and artless, but clarifies his intent without mincing words. At this point, there’s so much blood being drawn into his swelling cock that wordplay is beyond him in any event.

The power with which Ronan slams his back into the wall and grinds down against his thigh is frightening in its intensity. To think, only a couple of hours ago the man was nothing but teasing smiles and courteous gentility. Perhaps Peter should have taken his lessons in obfuscation from the Kree.

Clever fingers divest him of his coat with all due alacrity.

 

**_Elector: 1 hour prior to mission_ **

“Ya know, I think yer gonna do alright.” The admission seems to pain the Ravager Captain.

With a flourish, Peter twirls in place and allows his coat to flare wide then spin around his hips before settling. He flicks the feathers of his masquerade mask out of his face for the fiftieth time in the past ten minutes and admires his reflection. With the exception of the prosthetic claws, he likes what he sees.

“Now, son, I know that look and ahm gonna tell you right now…” Following a brief pause, Yondu emphasizes each subsequent word with a sharp jab of his index finger. “Whatever you do, you better keep your clothes on and that ugly Terran cock in your pants tonight.”

“I know. I’m not stupid,” Peter snarks back.

His protestation is met with a disbelieving huff.

 

**_Ichthios Prime_ **

As much as Peter enjoys a bit of rough and tumble frottage, having his hideous coat abruptly torn off like tissue paper certainly helps to move things along. The fewer layers between him and the massive font of power and unabashed masculinity grinding against him, the better, he thinks.

His shirt soon follows, more or less intact, and Ronan leans back to grant him sufficient space to wriggle out of his trousers. By some miracle, Peter manages to wrest Ronan’s top off, and his mask along with it, at the same time.

 

As soon as Peter is free of his trappings, bare but for miles of sun-kissed skin, Ronan lunges forward and lifts him such that he has no other choice than to wrap his legs around his waist. His back meets the marble wall with a resounding smack.

“Shit. You’re pretty strong for a paper pusher,” he gasps as Ronan insinuates his palm between their bodies with neither hesitation nor fanfare. It settles firmly where Peter’s cock is unabashedly hard and already smearing precome in a tacky trail across their stomachs.

“Impetuous man. Must I keep your mouth occupied in order for you to remain silent?” Ronan hisses through clenched teeth, though the first part is too mangled to be picked up by Peter’s translator. He groans at the unexpected eroticism of Ronan’s unfiltered voice as it seeps down into his loins and stokes the embers of desire that grip him like a vice. His cock pulses between them, caged within those skillful fingers as it is, riding the knife-edge of suffering and pleasure.

“Wouldn’t hurt to try. No promises, though.” Eyes screwed tightly shut, Peter bucks against the calloused skin playing him like a particularly crude instrument, while simultaneously pulling Ronan close enough to share breath. The quick sweep of his tongue across the Kree’s kiss-swollen lips is a dare. They both know it, but Ronan refuses to be so easily provoked.

“No. I have other plans for you, you preposterously wanton creature,” he proclaims. Despite the hard edge of his words, he presses his advantage and pulls yet another series of breathless ‘ah’s’ from Peter. The negligible space between them grows thick with the ozone-like scent of his arousal, portending the ferocious storm that is sure to follow. “So consumed by your paltry desires that you would endanger yourself if only for a moment’s pleasure…”

“Not worth it if there’s no risk,” Peter finally manages to pant in return.

Teeth sink into his neck, just below his ear, as Ronan administers an admonishing bite. It’s sharper than the ones preceding it and Peter can’t help but to gasp and press his hips forward in a desperate bid for more friction. He is rewarded with yet another rumble of disapproval, but there’s no denying the way Ronan’s dick strains against the seam of his pants and twitches in interest against the cleft of Peter’s buttocks.

“Risk? You speak of your flagrant disregard for even the most rudimentary tenants of infiltration as something so innocuous as ‘risk?’ No, Terran, what you have done is flaunt your rather substantial ignorance in a misplaced attempt to add spice to the flavor of subversion.” He punctuates his disdain with a merciless roll of his hips.

It takes a moment for Peter to claw his way through the haze of arousal sufficiently to parse out the meaning of the barrage of words. But, before he can even begin to formulate a response, the sudden realization that Ronan knows what he is draws him up short. Adrenaline floods his belly and he is deafened once more by the pounding of his own heart. The knowledge that his evening is likely about to consist of equal parts figurative and literal fucking pierces through him, cold realization more devastating than any blade.

Ronan gladly takes his slack-jawed silence as an admission of guilt. The Kree’s arousal flares even brighter. He jostles Peter in order to successfully unclasp his fly and free his leaking erection.

“For the crimes of premeditated burglary of a holy artifact and unsanctioned espionage on a planet held under Kree jurisdiction, you stand accused," he proclaims in a rumbling baritone that brokers no argument. Despite the severity of his words, he pointedly drags the swell of his cock along Peter’s cleft, leaving a prodigious trail of natural lubricant.

“Wait, wait! what? Legislative adjunct, my ass. You’re an Accuser, too?” Peter exclaims, voice breaking off on a moan as Ronan’s grip on his left buttock tightens in warning.

“But, why are you guys here? Ichthios…isn’t under…Kree rule,” he chokes out. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows it’s a mistake. He should be lashing out and running for his life, not folded nearly double, arguing political positions in a hopeless bid to reason with a Kree Accuser. But, the incongruous fire in his loins makes it impossible to think rationally. Sweat drips down his chest and settles in the creases of his folded stomach.

Ronan snorts softly, his amusement carefully tempered, and gives Peter’s insistent cock another dry, perfunctory stroke. When he winces, Ronan releases his erection and hitches his thighs up further. He reaches down to give his own member a loose stroke, then retakes the swell of Peter’s shaft in-hand, fist slick.

“Wherever an Accuser so chooses to step foot immediately and irrevocably falls beneath the yoke of Kree dominion,” he explains, bicep flexing rhythmically with masterful precision.

Hyperaware of the encroaching orgasm being slowly and steadily milked from him by the calloused palm on his dick, Peter valiantly attempts to string together more than two words between panting breaths. “That sounds...made up, dude.”

A thready whine escapes through his parted lips as the vice grip on his cock tightens to the point of pain and the resultant jolt of hunger threatens to swallow him whole. Ronan’s thumb bears down on his glans and massages the delicate tip far too roughly.

“Okay, sorry! Fuck.” He groans brokenly and his head falls back against the wall, lips parted in a silent O. The vice grip returns to a more pleasurable hold.

Peter’s never before been so wholly terrified and aroused at once. Intrigue and subversion fall by the wayside, replaced by the demand to succumb and a worrisome predilection for the color blue. Meanwhile, those dexterous blue fingers continue to caress his throbbing erection and fondle his scrotum, eliciting a strangled moan as the onslaught of sensation gains another level of intensity.

“We are here for you, Star-Lord. The Venerable Mother knew that an attempted infiltration would occur during the ceremony, though, she certainly must not have realized that it would be such a paltry attempt.” Ronan punctuates the statement with a series of sharp thrusts of his pelvis. His spongy cockhead pulls at Peter’s hole from time to time, then continues to slide past.

 

“A guilty verdict is assured. Though, the _nature_ of your sentencing remains to be determined,” Ronan pants, cheeks flushed and eyes narrowed.

“You…you like getting off to the sound of your own voice don’t you? Stop monologuing and fuck me already!” Peter barks out impatiently as he tries to rock his hips and feel the weight of Ronan’s cock press against his cleft. Desperation drags at him, though for what, he doesn’t know, folded and pinned beneath the unforgiving wall of muscle as he is.

Ronan’s hips stutter as he suddenly hesitates.

The stilled fist on Peter’s cock makes him glance up to meet the unremitting purple gaze. When their eyes meet, something other than menacing command seeps into the Kree’s expression. The furrow between his brow eases and the cold facade gives way to something softer, something inscrutable, but in no way less dangerous.

“Despite the fact that I am the arbitrator of your ruin, you still desire to fall by my hand?”

“Yes. Please. Don’t stop.” The entreaty comes out as a gasp.

Ronan’s eyes narrow. “You truly wish to be filled and broken beneath the might of the Supreme Accuser?” Allowing the crisp ring of incredulity to seep into his tone is a gross oversight and speaks to his dwindling self-control.

Peter only moans and nods emphatically. “Sometime today, if we could.”

Affirmation made, it takes no time at all for Ronan to reposition Peter and spread his buttocks wide. His probing fingers are confident and greedy as they immediately begin to massage the tight ring of muscle there.

For Peter, everything is simultaneously too much and not enough. Words fail him. Instead he communicates his need in other small ways: a lascivious roll of the hips, trembling thighs clutching tightly, eager little gasps at each and every touch. It’s simplicity itself to pull Ronan’s head down, unresisting, and plant a series of sloppy kisses on the corner of his mouth. It’s even simpler still to succumb to the full force of the Kree’s desire in a hopelessly ill-matched battle of teeth and tongues.

Peter mumbles incoherently when they are forced to pull apart for air. Sweat beads along his brow and serves to showcase the bright flush that dusts his cheeks and trails down his body to where his dick stands at attention, glans near purple with the potency of his arousal.

“You are a fool, Terran,” Ronan remarks, again with that queer expression of mild confusion. He absently lifts one hand to card his fingers through Peter’s haphazard hair.

“And you’re awfully chatty for a Kree.” Peter’s retort is a chiding complaint that he _knows_ is asking for trouble.

It an instant, the fingers in his hair close into a fist. Though, that sharp bite of pain is quickly made inconsequential by the thick index finger that presses into him without any warning whatsoever.

The stretch is exactly what he needs. Peter lets out a strangled litany of curses and grinds down as best as he can in a greedy bid for more.

Ronan rewards his enthusiasm with a brutal thrust and another finger added far too soon. It’s rough and agonizing and altogether perfect. They both breathe harshly in tandem.

“Damn,” Peter moans at length. “I ain’t gonna break. Just put them in already.”

Ronan savagely twists his wrist, the motion forcing his trapped fingers to sink into Peter’s clutching heat as far as possible. “Do not presume to give me orders, Quill.” The unspoken threat hovers between them, black and foreboding.

“‘M not ordering. Begging,” Peter corrects with unabashed honesty. How Ronan knows his real name is inconsequential, and almost expected, at this point.

The burning ache only amplifies as a third finger is added and stretches him wide with clinical efficiency. Never let it be said that the Kree were not effectual in all things. To think that the culmination of the evening’s intricate dance of obfuscation and revelation is going to end in such a deep unfolding leaves Peter breathless.

Ronan’s fingers retreat and leave Peter with an emptiness that he swears he can feel in his soul.

“Ro-nan,” he whines, impatiently thrusting his hips in a futile attempt to garner some sort of friction.

“Be silent and be still,” Ronan growls. As if on cue, his fingers are immediately replaced with something substantially larger. It takes a few seconds for the Kree to shift and align his angular glans at Peter’s entrance, grinding his teeth impatiently all the while. Once positioned, he returns both hands to Peter’s hips to steady them both.

“Bear down for me.” The smooth cadence of his voice hitches on a broken snarl. Peter can only grasp his shoulders and desperately rake purple welts into Ronan’s lovely blue skin while his body ardently resists taking the tapered glans. Even slickened by the flood of natural lubricant as it is, Ronan’s girth is substantial and the resultant stretch burns.

“Bear down,” Ronan orders once more, this time backing his words with the commanding tone of an Accuser.

And, on a shuddering exhale, Peter does.  

It’s only then that Ronan’s phallus begins to feed into him, inch by sopping inch, stretching him further and piercing the core of him. Ronan’s expression hardens into something dripping with triumph as he turns his gaze to the twilight ceiling and presses his advantage.

The painful melancholy, the truth of the totality of Peter’s utterly failed mission, the fear of things to come, all become inconsequential. The repercussions of his folly take place in a distant future. For now, he narrows his focus and exerts all of his energies into settling onto the hips that quiver against his buttocks with smooth and devastating power.

Hilted, their voices commingle in shared pleasure.

The sensation of being fully penetrated is an overwhelmingly intense amalgamation of pain and pleasure, so intimate that Peter clenches his teeth and fists tightly in an effort to endure. It aches so badly that it burns.

“Ronan.” He grinds out in broken prayer.

After a brief pause to allow them both time to regain the scraps of their tenuous self-control, Ronan eases partially out. Every flared penile ridge resists the motion, grasping at Peter’s inner walls in a bid to remain burrowed. When he slides back home, the raised crests cut a path straight to Peter’s soul. He cries out at the jolt of agony and pleasure and arches his back in a desperate, instinctive bid to adjust the angle of penetration. His reward is a stroke of the broad belly of the Kree’s shaft over his prostate.

His thighs fall open unbidden with an aborted scream. Fortunately, Ronan’s strength accommodates easily for his lapse.

“Such a weak, churlish species. It’s a small wonder you were discovered so easily,” Ronan chides through clenched teeth. Though, the vehemence of his judgment is tempered by the grunts of effort interspersed throughout.

Peter thinks he must be close if this artless wordplay is the best that he can do. But then the Kree presses Peter’s thighs flush against his heaving chest and changes the angle of his thrusts and all coherent thought is lost once more.

Sweat drips down the wall and his thighs ache from the strain of the awkward position. Ronan’s passions are explosive and his pistoning hips unforgiving. Wet, squelching slaps fill the room.

“Ro- Ronan.” Peter scrabbles at Ronan’s bare arms and keens from between clenched teeth. In turn, the Kree quickly readjusts his position, one forearm supporting Peter’s lower back, and takes his weeping cock in hand. After what feels like an eternity, it proves to be too much.

The evening’s mounting trepidation and the undeniable sexual chemistry between them coalesce into the strangest and most powerful orgasm of his life. Just as his lungs begin to ache from the force of his held breath, release slams through him and sets his world alight. Each point of contact is a searing agony that curls his toes and pulls every muscle taut.

He tries to scream, but he can’t get enough air to do so, instead producing a guttural groan that devolves into no more than a reedy whine. Warm spurts of release drip down the sides of his abdominals to patter onto the rough-hewn tile below.

Ronan continues to support his weight and uses his body to further chase his own orgasm. Peter surrenders completely and bonelessly in his arms. He doesn’t voice a single complaint against being used so roughly despite the roiling over-sensitivity that is now more pain than pleasure. The trusting submission makes Ronan’s pupils dilate and the predator within him still.

Two strokes later he tenses and Peter gasps as his bowels fill with a wealth of warm release. It drips from the seal between their bodies to join Peter’s own puddle on the tile. The pearlescent blue is quite winsome, he thinks.

Ronan stays arched over him for some time, panting and with eyes half-lidded, until he finally gathers himself and eases his phallus free of Peter’s body.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to walk the same again. Looks like you’ll have to carry me back to the ceremony,” Peter drawls, sleepy and content. He strokes the cords of muscle on Ronan’s neck and follows them down to his thick pectorals.

“Slothful, indolent boy. There will be no ceremony. Have you understood nothing this evening?” An undercurrent of threat flits among Ronan’s rumbling voice and sends a thrill directly to Peter’s hindbrain. It’s a shame that he’s too blissed out to respond in any way other than to pull Ronan towards him and into a gentle kiss.

He pulls back and offers a satisfied smile, confused, but too drunk on endorphins to care. “I’m thick headed. You gotta hammer it in.” The thinly veiled double entendre elicits a snort of derision. Ronan steps back, as if intending to let him fall, then steadies Peter’s waist with a steel grip until his feet touch the floor and his trembling legs stop threatening to buckle.

“Fortuitously for you, my skill set in that regard extends past the use of my Universal Weapon.”

Peter stops and stares.

“That was the absolute lamest…” he begins, only to burst out laughing so heartily that he has to cling to Ronan’s shoulders for support.

“Perhaps. Though, levity aside, there is still the matter of determining the severity of your transgressions and subsequent sentencing,” Ronan responds. The line between lingering lust and imminent threat vacillates along a knife edge.

Peter’s mirthful laughter finally dies down and he drops his forehead onto Ronan’s broad chest with a smack.

“Can’t that stuff wait until morning at least?”

“So that you might plan a misbegotten escape?” Ronan inquires with mild affront. His arms sneak around Peter’s waist and hold him close. “You would not survive the attempt.”

“What? No, man. So that I can stretch out these wicked kinks in my back and we can use that bed for some post-coital cuddles and maybe a round two,” Peter retorts. He absently plucks off his prosthetics and tosses them over his shoulder. There’s no point in continuing the charade.

After brief contemplation, a thrumming purr begins to reverberate in Ronan’s throat, more redolent of a beast than the man that he appears to be.

“Perhaps there is some merit to the idea,” he finally concedes, pupils fully dilated and deep as pitch.

“Oh, trust me, I’ve got a bunch of ideas that I think you’ll like.” Peter takes Ronan’s hands from his hips and walks backwards towards the bed, only tripping over his own feet twice. They collapse onto the plush duvet. Ronan quickly settles himself between Peter’s legs and drags their clasped hands further up the bed until their chests touch. When Peter goes to speak, the Kree succinctly swallows his words. Sometime later, Ronan’s boots and pants finally manage to make it off of his body and onto the floor in a haphazard mound.

Round two is decidedly more horizontal and turns into rounds three and four, each tryst increasingly more sedate and explorative than the one before. Ronan’s fervent need to claim peters out in increments following each sticky satiation until they lie sore and languorously coiled together beneath the sheets.

Fully spent, they bask in the afterglow and take pleasure instead in the music that filters in through the open balcony. Oddly familiar harmonics, like the whine of engines, underlay the texture of the song, but retreat before Peter can be bothered to notice.

It takes a long moment for Peter’s heart rate to come back down. When it does, he burrows further into Ronan’s muscular embrace and asks the question that has been plaguing him in the quiet moments between their feverish copulating. “What gave me away tonight?”

There’s not even a second of thoughtful hesitation.

“Red hair, pink skin, crimson trappings…the whole of you cried out for attention like a whore’s bauble,” Ronan drawls. His eyes flutter in contentment as he pulls Peter completely flush against his side.

“But Yondu said that Kree couldn’t see color!” he denies, affronted, though at what he can’t say precisely. His outrage crumbles beneath the impact of Ronan’s loud scoff and a lead weight settles in his stomach when he realizes that he’s revealed both the depths of his ignorance and implicated his Captain all at one fell swoop.

“That is a common misperception. Kree can perceive the red spectrum quite well. And, were I completely blind, your ploy would still have been immediately apparent.” He rolls them both until Peter is pinned beneath him once more, thighs parting instinctively to make room for the Kree to settle between them. Even so, they are both too spent to offer anything more provocative than a handful of indolent undulations. He traces Peter’s jaw and takes pleasure in the dichotomy of the textures.

“You make a truly terrible Ichthi,” he pronounces. “Not once this evening have you attempted to observe or react to their body cues. Spoken language is a rather churlish mode of communication for their race, reserved only for interactions with less _evolved_ species such as ourselves.” Disdain oozes from every syllable as he spits out the word ‘evolved.’

Peter eases him down to kiss the abrupt flare of anger away.

“Alright, fine, I suck at subterfuge. I get it. So what happens now?” he asks, never quite breaking the seal of their lips. The hunger between them ignites once more until Ronan reluctantly pulls away and collapses back to the bed. He yawns hugely, then cards his fingers through Peter’s hair.

“I have yet to decide.”

 

**_Elector: 0 hours_ **

“Great plan and all. But what happens if we get caught? We got back-up, an escape plan, anything?” Peter’s persistent naivety is vexing at the best of times, but, endearing enough to justify no more than a long-suffering sigh from Yondu.

“Nah. You screw this up, you an’ Kraglin are on your own, son. So don’t you screw this up,” he tosses back casually as he shoves Peter stumbling into the runner craft and punches the door mechanism, brokering no argument. The hatch slams shut and abruptly cuts off his gruff, barking laughter.

At that moment, Kraglin approaches, hitches his bag further up his narrow shoulders, and eyes Yondu side-long. “You think it’ll work this time, Cap’n?”

Yondu simply grins and waggles his fingers at Peter through the M-ship’s shield.

“Oh, sure. This time you’ve got yerself one hell of a diversion.”


End file.
